


Aliens

by cuttothequickk



Series: All Things Bright and Beautiful [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 02:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13560720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttothequickk/pseuds/cuttothequickk
Summary: There is a lot to be remembered about a 20-year relationship. Oikawa can't possibly keep all of it in his head.An exploration of transience, permanence, and aliens looking for their spaceships so they can get home.





	Aliens

**Author's Note:**

> Vaguely inspired by "The Good Side" by Troye Sivan

 

 

 

There are some things Oikawa Tooru will always remember.

 

The way it feels to execute a perfect toss during an important volleyball game. The satisfying smack of his best friend’s hand against the ball as he spikes to score. The way their teammates crowd around them in excitement and awe while the crowd goes wild. The way Hajime looks over at him with this smirk that’s reserved just for Tooru. Tooru catches his eye and grins back, and together they are nearly feral with the gratification of victory.

 

The thing is, most people are a little bit dumbfounded by Oikawa Tooru. Girls fawn over his charm and good looks. Teachers respect his intelligence and organization. His parents are proud of their talented son. Oikawa Tooru is the picture of a successful high school student, and he acts like it.

 

And then there is Hajime, Oikawa’s beloved Iwa-chan, who sees all of that and calls bullshit. Regularly. Every day.

 

“Why are we friends again?” Iwa-chan asks after Oikawa leaves his fangirls behind so they can start the short walk back to Oikawa’s house.

 

“Because I’m pretty?” Oikawa says, flashing a grin and a peace sign like he’s posing for a picture even though no one’s taking one.

 

Iwa-chan rolls his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ. Are you coming or not?”

 

The walk home is mostly filled with Oikawa poking at Iwa-chan’s side and then being insulted. It is, overall, a pretty fun time.

 

“Ah,” Oikawa says as he and Iwa-chan walk through the door and start slipping off their shoes, “Iwa-chan, do you think Kana-chan will come to the game next Saturday, too? She’s so pretty and perfect, always brings her friends along, so I’ll have to be prepared for lots of _photos~_ ”

 

“Drop the act.”

 

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Why, Iwa-chan, whatever are you talking about?” They climb the stairs together and push through to Oikawa’s bedroom. Well, Iwa-chan pushes through. Oikawa _glides._

 

Iwa-chan rolls his eyes. “You know what I’m talking about. We’re the only ones here. So you can just be yourself now.”

 

Oikawa looks around. Iwa-chan is right; they are finally alone in Oikawa’s bedroom, their walk home over, the door shut between them and the rest of the world.

 

Oikawa sighs himself into _Tooru._

 

“Hajime, I want some milk bread.” Tooru whines at Hajime (because now he’s _Hajime_ and not _Iwa-chan_ ) and flops onto his bed, rolling onto his stomach to prop his chin on his hand and blink wide, pouty eyes up at his best friend.

 

Let it never be said that Tooru is not just as bratty as Oikawa.

 

Hajime rolls his eyes. “Why are you like this? Is it so difficult for you to just be a person that you have to annoy everyone all the time about everything?” But Hajime is digging through his backpack and offering up a slightly squished package of milk bread, and Tooru takes it with a delighted little squeal.

 

“No,” Tooru says, a little petulant even as he tears open the wrapper and offers half the milk bread to Hajime. “It’s just easier to flirt my way into getting what I want.”

 

Hajime huffs. “Yeah, I know. But I’m your best friend, so you can just ask me.”

 

“You like it,” Tooru teases. He’s pushing it and he knows it, but he’s 17 and he’s high on this morning’s victory and Hajime is his best friend, and they’re both young and beautiful, and Tooru thinks he could lie on his bed talking to Hajime for the rest of his life and not get bored. Which is incredible, because Oikawa is always bored. That’s part of why there’s such a grand distinction between _Oikawa_ and _Tooru_ inside his head.

 

“You know it’s not like multiple personalities disorder or something, right, Hajime?” Tooru asks after he chews and swallows his first bite of milk bread, the flavor heavenly on his tongue.

 

Hajime rolls his eyes from his spot on the floor. He’s sitting cross-legged and munching on the milk bread as he rifles through Tooru’s backpack to get Tooru’s homework out for him. “Yeah, I know. You’re not really that different when you’re with me than when we’re at school.”

 

“So why do you always tell me to drop the act?”

 

Hajime looks up sharply as he slams a math textbook on Tooru’s low table. “Because there’s still a difference.”

 

Tooru bats his eyes. “What, that I stop flirting with everyone else and only flirt with Hajime-kun?” He runs a hand through his hair. “You must like having me all to yourself. Hajime-kun is obsessed with me. Because I’m so pretty.”

 

Hajime rolls his eyes, but he’s fighting a smirk. “Shut up. You’re not pretty.”

 

“Mean, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says. It’s rare for him to call Hajime “Iwa-chan” when it’s just the two of them, but every once in a while he does it to rile Hajime up.

 

“You deserve it.”

 

They both ignore the fact that Hajime doesn’t deny his obsession with Tooru. It’s not as if they don’t both know the obsession is mutual.

 

They work on their math homework for about an hour. Tooru always understands the material more easily but he forgets all of it right after the test; Hajime has to work hard to get it but once he does, he’ll remember it forever. Together, they can get through all their homework pretty quickly no matter the subject, with Tooru explaining the concepts in ways he knows Hajime will understand and Hajime keeping them focused and forcing them to review old material so that Tooru doesn’t let it all fly out of his brain.

 

“What do you want for dinner?” Tooru asks once they’re finishing up their last assignment for their English class, both of them grumbling over irregular verbs and the stupidity of having the object of the sentence come after the verb, which makes it so _every word in the sentence goes in the wrong place, Hajime! Why is English like this? WHY?_

 

(Hajime had smacked him on the head with a pillow after that particular outburst.)

 

“We could go to that yakiniku place,” Hajime suggests.

 

Tooru starts packing his homework into his backpack. “The chain one or the Showa Era one?”

 

Hajime shrugs. “I was thinking Showa Era. You like their rice better.”

 

Tooru nods. “And they have that one kind of steak you like.”

 

“And,” Hajime says, smirking, “Chicken cartilage.”

 

Tooru shrieks. “Stop! Stop! You know I hate that! Why do you even bring it up!”

 

“Because I know you hate it.”

 

“Mean, Iwa-chan! So mean! Meat isn’t supposed to _crunch!_ ”

 

Hajime’s smirk widens. “But it’s so delicious, _Tooru-chan,_ ” he says.

 

“It is _not!_ ”

 

They walk out the door still bickering, and Tooru wonders what he would do without his best friend to keep him happy like this.

 

“Thanks, Hajime,” Tooru says out of nowhere.

 

Hajime nods, his mouth curved into relaxed satisfaction. “Yeah, you’re welcome, Tooru. But you’re buying me dinner.”

 

Tooru smacks at Hajime’s arm, but the shorter just wraps his abused limb around Tooru’s shoulders and steers him towards the restaurant. “I’m too pretty to buy,” Tooru whines.

 

“Yeah, whatever. Trashy-kawa.”

 

Tooru shrieks a laugh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tooru’s earliest memory is of staring at the sky long past his bedtime, the stars glittering above him until his mother had realized he was not in bed and had ushered him inside, chastising him for his misbehavior with a strict detachment that had taught him right off the bat that compliance was easier and less dangerous than disobedience. And it’s true: Tooru was for many years a complacent, quiet child. He had pleased his mother, who had wanted her darling son to be poised and intelligent even as a toddler, and he had pleased his father, who had wanted a boy with an interest in business and sports and a refined taste in both material goods and people.

 

When Tooru is six, he meets Iwaizumi Hajime. Hajime-kun is boisterous and aggressive, but he comes from a good family and Tooru’s mother and father approve of their budding friendship. They are in the same class, and they walk to school together every day, and Tooru is mostly contemplative on their walks because he has learned that silence is the path of least resistance, and Tooru has never found any reason to resist. Tooru is young, but even he can see that with parents as strict as his, there is no point to transgression. Life is easier when he meets expectations, and even at six he can read a room well enough to know that silence is what is expected.

 

Hajime is the opposite of Tooru in every way. He runs from his mother when she calls him away from the swings in the park. He sticks his tongue out at his father when he is refused his request for ice cream. He colors during class even though the teacher explains over and over that they are meant to be practicing their names in hiragana.

 

Tooru is in awe of the reaction Hajime’s disobedience always garners. Hajime’s mother laughs and chases him around the jungle gym, a smile on her face as she eventually catches him and wraps him in a hug. Hajime’s father smiles and pats his head, promising ice cream another day. Even their teacher simply gives up after a while, and later she compliments his drawing even though Hajime always writes the “ji” in his name backwards.

 

Tooru tries, once, to disobey his mother, and he is offered no smiles, no words of kindness, no lenience. He does not provoke the easy affection that Hajime is always given. Instead, he is lectured about responsibility, and then his mom sends him to practice writing his name in kanji, because she wants to make sure he gets ahead.

 

At 16, Tooru realizes that there is a difference between _Oikawa_ and _Tooru._ Oikawa has big dreams. He’ll go to a big university with a great volleyball team. He’ll set for them; he’ll go pro and be a star. Maybe he’ll move to America and play volleyball there. The girls will want to date him. The boys will want to _be_ him. Maybe some mixing and matching in there, because he doesn’t really care which genders want to fuck him and which want to emulate him. Oikawa has the world ahead of him, as long as he can perform correctly.

 

At 16, Tooru can understand that his mother has only ever wanted the best for her darling son. That his father has always wanted to prepare him for a lucrative and stable career. That his teachers have seen potential in his intelligence and his ability to discern and then meet expectations. That perhaps Hajime was given more freedom and easy affection than Tooru ever got, but that Tooru’s refined charm and stunning good looks will take him farther than Hajime’s aggressive yet endearing boyishness will ever take his best friend.

 

At 17, Oikawa is the face everyone sees. Oikawa talks about his future plans, and he always laughs at the right parts of his parents’ friends stories, and he knows how to make a good first impression on the people who will impact his future. Oikawa is Going Places, and even at 17, everyone knows it.

 

At 17, Tooru doesn’t want to go anywhere, except to volleyball practice with Hajime. He is still young, he thinks, and he has time to follow dreams once they go to college, or even after college. It’s not that Tooru thinks nothing will ever change; it’s that he knows it will, and it will happen automatically, and then he will pursue his dreams while Hajime pursues his own, and Tooru will once again meet the expectations of grandeur that have been placed upon his since he was young.

 

But for now, there is this.

 

They are standing in the gym. Tooru is smiling his slyest smile because he knows they are going to win. They are a quarter of the way through their last year of high school, and Hajime is beside him with a wicked smirk across his strong, handsome face. Tooru looks at him and feels lithe and powerful, like a jungle cat stalking its prey. Tooru watches as Hanamaki serves the ball, and then he waits for the opportune moment, and then he shows the world Hajime’s skill by offering him a perfect toss, and the entire gym is roaring, and Tooru feels nothing for it until Hajime is next to him, an arm slung around Tooru’s shoulders even though Tooru is still a little bit taller, even after Hajime’s recent growth spurt.

 

“Fuck, that was awesome,” Hajime says, ever unrefined, and Tooru looks into his eyes and sees the spirit of a rebel, and thinks, for now there is this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Oikawa family always has a party to celebrate the end of summer vacation and, at least a little bit, to celebrate Tooru’s birthday. It’s nothing special, just a few neighbors and friends, and so of course the Iwaizumi family is invited. Tooru would invite Hajime even if the whole family weren’t invited, and of course they spend the evening plastered to each other, even as they impress the adults with how nice and grown up they look in their fanciest clothes. They hang around just long enough to steal a mostly full bottle of sake, and then they sneak up to Tooru’s room, giggling as they dart through the door and close it quietly behind them.

 

Tooru grins, holding the sake in triumph.

 

“Dude, we forgot cups,” Hajime gripes.

 

Tooru shrugs. “We can share.”

 

“Ew, I don’t want to share with you. You’ve kissed too many girls; you’ll get your cooties all over me.”

 

Tooru puts on his best expression of shock. “Why, Iwa-chan, I will have you know that all those girls have been lovely and beautiful and very, very good kissers. You should be so lucky to get their germs secondhand through me.”

 

Hajime barks a disbelieving laugh. “Seriously? Jesus Christ, you’re absurd. And incorrigible. Did I mention that you’re fucking absurd?” Hajime takes a long swing of the sake and then hands the bottle over, and Tooru does his best to look affronted.

 

“Stop insulting me,” he says, taking a swallow and then sticking his tongue out.

 

Hajime presses a hand to his heart. “Insulting you? I’m not insulting you; I’m insulting the girls you kiss. They have terrible taste.”

 

“ _Mean_ , Iwa-chan!”

 

“Anyways, I don’t care about getting your stupid germs. I just don’t want them all mixed up with the germs from random strangers.”

 

Tooru quirks an eyebrow and holds the bottle out to Hajime, who takes it. Tooru smirks. “Oh? Is Iwa-chan jealous of all the girls who have had the privilege of kissing Tooru-chan?”

 

Hajime takes another swig of sake and rolls his eyes. “No,” he says. “Maybe I just don’t want to share the sake with you,” he says.

 

“Hey!” Tooru says, making a grabbing motion at Hajime and giggling as the bottle is pressed into his hand. He takes another drink, and—fuck, he’s already kind of feeling it. This isn’t the first time he and Hajime have snuck alcohol from their parents or anything, but they haven’t eaten yet and the sake is making his head all fuzzy and warm.

 

“Jesus, you’re a lightweight,” Hajime says, as if he can tell that Tooru is already a little bit drunk.

 

Tooru pouts. “You’re smaller than me.”

 

“Shorter doesn’t mean smaller, you fucking twig.”

 

“How can you even tell!”

 

“Your eyes,” Hajime says, apparently knowing what Tooru means, as always. “They always go all glassy and dark when you’re drinking.”

 

Tooru gets up off the bed to look in his mirror. “I’m fine, Hajime. I’m not even drunk.”

 

“No, but you’re tipsy. You want me to go try to get more sake? This bottle is empty.”

 

Tooru shrieks, remembers that they’re definitely not allowed to be doing what they’re doing and therefore shouldn’t attract attention to themselves, and shuts up. “Mean!”

 

Hajime stares at him for a few seconds and then holds out the bottle. “Kidding. But there’s only a couple more swallows, probably.”

 

Tooru reaches for the bottle and takes a swig. There’s more left than he can drink at once, and he hands the bottle back to Hajime so he can finish it off. Hajime accepts, taking the bottle back in a motion that looks slow and calculated. Their fingers brush as they pass the bottle between them, and Tooru feels a little shock like electricity shoot through him.

 

Oh, he thinks.

 

Oh.

 

He doesn’t even try to tell himself it’s just the alcohol.

 

Later, once they’ve snuck back downstairs to kidnap a couple of plates of food, playing it cool when they see their parents because they’re bordering on drunk, they sit next to each other on the bed and turn on their playlist of YouTube videos they like. They feed each other while they watch, because they each know what the other likes and what bugs them. Hajime makes sure the vegetables don’t touch the noodles and pulls the legs and heads off the shrimp. Tooru picks out the goya because Hajime hates it.

 

“Oi, who gets the last bite of mochi?” Hajime asks.

 

“I want it! Hajime-kun, please,” Tooru says, drawing out the word long at the end.

 

Hajime shakes his head, a fond smile gracing his lips. “Brat.”

 

“You love it.”

 

Tooru snatches up the mochi in his chopsticks and starts chewing. It takes a while because it’s so dense and sticky, and he savors the texture with a long sigh. Hajime snorts his amusement at Tooru’s antics.

 

“I love mochi. Don’t you love mochi?”

 

“I can go get some more,” Hajime offers, turning his head in towards Tooru so their faces are only a few inches apart. He looks so normal, and somehow that’s what does it. Hajime isn’t trying to impress him. He isn’t catering to Oikawa, gifted setter and all-around remarkable person, to get something for himself. This is just Hajime offering to do something for Tooru because it is a fact of Hajime’s existence that he and Tooru are a team. It is a permanent feature of a transient world.

 

Tooru feels his heart leap. He’s dizzy with it, the affection and alcohol saturating his bloodstream all thick and dizzy so he thinks he might collapse forward into Hajime and never let go. Hajime is staring at him, questioning, and Tooru can’t help but flick his eyes down to Hajime’s lips, his whole body turning where it’s resting on the bed to angle in towards his best friend, his partner, the only other person he wants on his team in life.

 

“Tooru,” Hajime says, low and reverent. His eyes are wide, his breath coming in slow puffs against Tooru’s lips. Tooru’s eyes come up to meet Hajime’s and they are frozen, their hands still holding plates and chopsticks, the wall solid against their shoulders as they turn in towards each other.

 

Tooru swallows, his mouth falling open just barely, lips soft and ready for—for—

 

“Tooru, you’re drunk,” Hajime says, but he’s not pulling away.

 

“I know,” Tooru says. “You are, too; we should—”

 

“Fuck, you’re—”

 

“Hajime,” Tooru pleads, dropping his chopsticks and plate somewhere behind him so his hands can land at the nape of Hajime’s neck.

 

“Shit, Tooru—”

 

Tooru swallows again and—

 

“Let’s wait,” Tooru gasps.

 

Hajime stares.

 

“Until we’re sober.”

 

Hajime sucks in a breath. “Okay.”

 

Tooru doesn’t pull away. “Will you still—when we’re not…”

 

“When have I ever not?” It’s so simple, so obvious an answer, that Tooru feels it strike him right through the heart, and his fingers press tighter against Hajime’s skin.

 

“You mean—you’ve wanted this before?” Tooru’s voice sounds small, even scared.

 

Hajime doesn’t break eye contact, not even for a second. “Tooru. This—you—you’re it. Don’t you know that?”

 

“When did you realize?” Tooru asks, because he’s normally quicker on the uptake than Hajime, better at reading people and knowing their desires, their fears, their frustrations. But never once before right now has he considered this.

 

“I didn’t ever realize. It’s always been like this,” Hajime says. “I thought you knew, and you just didn’t…”

 

“Didn’t reciprocate?” Tooru’s head is spinning, and he feels more drunk all of a sudden even though he should feel less, if anything. They’ve eaten, and they’ve finished the sake, and everything is swirling around Tooru regardless.

 

Hajime laughs. _Laughs._ “Nope,” he says. “No, I just thought we were both content letting things lie, because we’ve got all the time in the world. There’s no need to rush, you know.”

 

“You thought I was in love with you?”

 

Hajime finally blushes a little. “I didn’t think that, exactly. I just thought we both knew, and we just figured we could take our time actually going…there.”

 

Tooru blinks. “I didn’t know.”

 

Hajime furrows his brow. “Didn’t know what?”

 

“Any of this. I didn’t know. You knew all this time?”

 

Hajime shrugs. “Yeah. I’ve always known.”

 

“So I haven’t been, like, hurting you? Going around kissing all those girls?”

 

Hajime bites his lip to stifle a laugh. “Nope. It’s fine. Do whatever you want. I know that for you, it’ll always be me. Just like for me, it’ll always be you.”

 

“But—Hajime, I—I feel like we should—we should kiss now, or—”

 

“You wanted to wait until we’re sober,” Hajime says. “You understood all this too. The feeling that we’re not in a rush, because we’ve got a long time ahead of us. You maybe didn’t realize you were feeling this, or understanding it, but somewhere in your head, you were doing the exact same thing I was. You still are. You just don’t realize it.”

 

Tooru is absolutely floored. “So—you’ve wanted to kiss me forever, and you’re expressing your undying love for me, at least kind of, and you still think we should wait to make out until we’re both sober. Not because you think I’ll change my mind once I’m no longer drunk, but just because _we have time._ ”

 

Hajime thinks for a minute. “Yeah, basically. We can have a way better first kiss than what that kiss will be right now, with us both drunk and talking about something that’s been an obvious fact of life for years even if _you_ hadn’t noticed.” Hajime grins.

 

Tooru’s mouth is hanging open, his eyes wide and unblinking. Everything feels distorted, but not in a bad way. It’s like his vision has been blurry for so long that he’s forgotten what it looks like to see, and now he’s just put on a pair of glasses and the world is in focus, but it looks entirely different. The edges are sharpened, the periphery honed in so everything feels closer.

 

And then Tooru’s brain adjusts. “I’m going to torment the _shit_ out of you,” he says, lips flicking up into a smirk as he leans back and away to collect his plate and chopsticks and set them on the floor. It suddenly doesn’t seem so imperative that they stay a hairsbreadth away from each other. Hajime is right: they’re not in any rush.

 

Hajime scoffs. “As if you could.”

 

“You think I can’t?”

 

“I think if you think you can dish it out, you better be able to take it, Shitty-kawa.”

 

Tooru licks his lips and watches Hajime’s eyes dart to the motion. His expression is downright sinful. “Bring it on, Iwa-chan.”

 

They finish their food, and then they put on a movie, and then they fall asleep together in Tooru’s bed, and they think nothing of it. Hajime was right, Tooru thinks as he closes his eyes.

 

It has always been this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Most people don’t know that Hajime always calls him “Tooru” when they’re not in public, and that he drops the “Iwa-chan” in favor of “Hajime” or even “Hajime-kun”. They’ve known each other since they were little and they’ve never managed to break the habit of familiarity between them even though they’re in high school now and social propriety mandates they maintain an appropriate distance. They are friends, and they are both boys. They are teenagers, so they are of course interested in the cute girls who fawn over Oikawa and the managers of the teams lucky enough to have managers who are girls. These are the expectations placed upon them, and Oikawa is very good at meeting them even if Tooru finds it difficult.

 

Some days, when Tooru is tired because he’s been up watching volleyball games or studying serve techniques or otherwise working himself into a sleepless frenzy trying to meet the expectations he has of himself, it’s difficult to keep himself away from Hajime. _Don’t touch, don’t touch,_ Tooru thinks with a sigh as they stand in the gym at after-school practice. Hajime’s tag is sticking out of his shirt again, and Tooru doesn’t fix it. “Iwa-chan, your tag,” he says instead.

 

“How the fuck do you even notice that?” Matsukawa asks with a snicker. Oikawa offers his best smile, and Matsukawa only his eyes.

 

Oikawa doesn’t look at Iwa-chan until they get home from practice.

 

“Do you think they know we go home together every day?” Tooru muses, sipping at his tea and leaning back against the side of his bed while Hajime taps his pencil against his history textbook.

 

Hajime shrugs. “Who gives a fuck?”

 

Tooru narrows his eyes. “They know.”

 

“Yeah, probably.”

 

“Did you tell them?”

 

Hajime looks up, exasperated. “Why would I tell them? _What_ would I tell them? ‘Hey guys, just so you know, I hang out with my best friend every day after school, it’s really important that you all know that, okay, thanks, bye’?”

 

Tooru shrugs, the motion almost nonchalant. He’s sure his expression is just serious enough that Hajime will be able to read his real irritation. “I don’t know.”

 

“Do you want them to know? Or do you want them to _not_ know?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Hajime sighs. “Shut up, Trashy-kawa. Do you fucking homework.”

 

Tooru stares out the window. “Does it matter to you?”

 

Hajime looks up at him. Stares for a long second. Doesn’t ask what Tooru means. “No,” he says, certain.

 

Tooru wishes he could be that certain about anything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The year goes on. They study. They hang out. They play volleyball.

 

They lose to Karasuno.

 

Hajime corners Tooru after the run-in with Ushijima, only Tooru isn’t Tooru. He can’t be Tooru right now. He’s clinging to Oikawa’s confidence and grace as well as he can.

 

“It’s okay to be angry,” Hajime says. “You don’t have to rationalize it away.”

 

“Rationalizing? What a big word, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says. “I’m not rationalizing. Kageyama is a genius. There’s no way someone without that talent could beat him. That doesn’t mean I’ll give up, though. After all, pro teams need someone as pretty as me, and I’m not exactly _bad_ at volleyball.”

 

Hajime growls low in his throat. They’re the only ones in the hallway, the vending machine next to them whirring in the silence of the near-empty school. “Stop being Oikawa and be _Tooru_ for a minute, god,” he says. “I’m angry, and maybe I need you to be a little bit angry about this, too,” he says, the words more a demand than a confession.

 

Tooru feels the emotional weight of them anyway. Hajime hardly ever shows weakness, mostly because he’s genuinely difficult to faze. If anything, Hajime gets satisfaction from being the solid one where Tooru is mercurial, difficult to please, nearly self-destructive in the way he pushes himself.

 

He takes a breath and lets it out, and with it feels his façade fall away.

 

“Yeah,” Tooru mumbles. “It sucks. It fucking sucks.”

 

Hajime looks at him. Tooru is slumped against the wall in the corner beside the vending machine. He feels small, but then Hajime doesn’t exactly look big and strong like usual either. He looks every bit the part of the eighteen-year-old who just lost something important. Tooru is sure his own expression isn’t any better.

 

“I’m still going to try, though,” he says after a beat of silence. Hajime looks up from where he’s been studying the floor. “To go pro, I mean. To practice harder, to learn more, to beat Kageyama and Ushijima and everyone else who stands in my way.”

 

Hajime holds eye contact for a minute. “Tooru,” he says, careful, as if the words he’s about to say are fragile, or like the person hearing them is. “Tooru, I know you. I know those words seem healthy and like you’re being a good loser and all, but…don’t destroy yourself over this.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Tooru asks, even though he knows Hajime won’t buy his attempt at playing dumb.

 

Hajime shakes his head. “You stay up all night watching videos. You practice until you’re about to throw up or pass you. You don’t eat. You wreck yourself because you think you’re not good enough. Hell, you’ve almost reinjured your knee, like, three times this season because you’ve been so determined to beat Shiratorizawa.”

 

Tooru swallows, stares up at Hajime from his slump against the wall. It feels strange to be at a lower height than his best friend, even if it’s just because of his posture.

 

Hajime leans in over him, an arm on either side of Tooru’s shoulders. “Tooru, please. You’re Oikawa, and you have dreams and the drive to fulfill them, but you’re also Tooru, the kid who loves space, who made me watch American alien movies every goddamn night for a year when we were in fifth grade, who loves milk bread and hates chicken cartilage and looks ugly when he cries. You’re annoying and way too dramatic even when you’re _not_ playing Oikawa, and you’re my best friend. So stop killing yourself over volleyball and get your head out of your ass.” Hajime finishes the speech with a sheepish rub to the back of his neck, a little blush creeping up his cheeks.

 

Tooru is silent for a moment, taken aback. Then he laughs. “Wow, Iwa-chan hardly ever puts that many words together in a sentence!”

 

“Shut up, you’re hardly ever quiet for long enough to let me,” he shoots back, and Tooru laughs.

 

“Mean, Iwa-chan,” he says, his tone fond. Hajime rolls his eyes and steps away from Tooru, and together they wander back down the hall to their team.

 

They fall asleep on each other on the bus, and when they get home, Hajime follows Tooru home and sleeps there like the thought of returning to his own house had never crossed his mind. Tooru doesn’t say anything, but he’s glad he’s not alone. Without Hajime, he would be up all night talking himself in circles. Instead, he falls asleep to his best friend’s gentle snores.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The thing is, Tooru gets a lot of satisfaction out of playing Oikawa. He means it when he tells Hajime that flirting his way into getting what he wants is easy, that it’s entertaining and that it makes him feel good about himself.

 

But he wonders what it would be like to be Hajime, to genuinely not care about what anyone else thinks. Hajime is certain of himself, confident, even though he’s generally regarded as less impressive than Oikawa. But then, maybe Hajime’s confidence is earned through hard work, because it is Tooru who is freaking out about his life and future while Hajime actually studies for their upcoming math test.

 

“You can stop being like this and just be Tooru, you know,” Hajime reminds him. They are in Hajime’s bedroom, this time sitting on the bed. Oikawa (who is currently _not_ Tooru) has his toes curled in between Hajime’s calves. Hajime lets it slide.

 

Oikawa shakes his head and emits a little hurt whimper. “Don’t wanna.”

 

Hajime rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying, you’re smart and it makes you doubt yourself all the time. And you’ve always had all these people trying to make you do better and be _more, more, more_ all the time. It fucking sucks watching it, so I can’t imagine what it’s like for you to actually live like that.”

 

Oikawa feels his frustration start to fade away and purses his lips. His head falls into Hajime’s shoulder, and he thinks about how they still haven’t kissed. Hajime runs a hand through Tooru’s hair, and yes, he feels more like himself, like Hajime can just brush away the façade with the touch of his fingers and make him real again.

 

“I hate this. I hate school. I hate everything,” Tooru says. Just to be annoying: “I hate you.”

 

Hajime rolls his eyes. “Shut up. Do you work.”

 

“I don’t want to.”

 

“Entrance exams are in February. Don’t you want to get into a good school?”

 

They both know Oikawa Tooru will get into a good school no matter what.

 

“I won’t deserve it. Nothing I do matters.”

 

Hajime lets out a loud, long-drawn sigh. “Tooru, I swear to god, you are the most infuriating person on the planet.”

 

Tooru juts out his lower lip, furrows his brow. Leans his head onto Hajime’s shoulder for a second before pulling back. “No, you.”

 

“You.”

 

“You.”

 

“What are you, _five?_ ”

 

“ _You-ooouu-ouuuuu._ ” Tooru rests his hand on his chin, his whole posture leaned in towards Hajime.

 

Hajime rolls his eyes. “You are the smartest, most wickedly talented person I know. Except stupid Kageyama, but he’s only good at one thing. And you’re good at everything, and people even _like_ you even though you’re an arrogant, obnoxious douche bag most of the time. You’re so on yourself about not living up to your expectations for yourself, but did you ever stop to think that maybe you’re actually just worried you’re not going to live up to what you think your parents want? Your teachers? Your gaggle of fangirls?”

 

“Hajime—”

 

“No, listen, Tooru. Did you ever think you’ve just internalized what everyone has always said about you to the point that you think it’s your own head telling you all that shit? They always say that you’ll go so far, but have they ever stopped to think about how far you actually _want_ to go? Have _you?_ ”

 

Tooru lets out a nervous laugh. He has two choices: be honest with his best friend and have an important, emotional conversation with the one person in the world who really knows him _,_ or pull on the mask that is Oikawa and dismiss everything, ruining their afternoon and potentially their friendship.

 

If there is one thing Oikawa and Tooru share besides their bratty streak, it is their penchant for destruction.

 

“Hajime, what are you talking about?” Oikawa simpers.

 

Hajime jerks back like he’s been slapped. Oikawa _never_ calls him by his first name, and it sounds condescending and too-familiar, rude in the desecration of the sanctity between Hajime and _Tooru._ Even saying it feels utterly wrong in the pit of Oikawa’s stomach, and he feels the blood rush from his face as he blanches, nauseated on too much emotion and the poison that is guilt.

 

“Oikawa Tooru,” Hajime says, carefully, like he’s trying to keep his voice steady against the rising tide of anger that is obvious in the tension of his shoulders.

 

Oikawa interrupts, a smile stitched onto his mouth. “Just because I have bigger dreams and better hopes of achieving them than you doesn’t mean I’m overwhelmed by any of it,” Oikawa says. “But I’m sure I could help you achieve similar things, the same way I show the world your skills on the court when I toss to you.”

 

“Oikawa—Tooru—drop this—”

 

“You’re not dumb, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says. “You just need someone charming like me to make you more appealing!”

 

Hajime’s mouth is open, stunned. Oikawa is surprised at his own cruelty, the savageness with which he has just destroyed the understanding that has always kept their friendship in balance: that they are equal partners, gifted with different strengths, together unstoppable. A scale perfectly balanced on either side.

 

Oikawa can feel it now, the way the scale has suddenly tipped, Oikawa the one to suddenly upset it, to weigh his thumb and shift the equilibrium.

 

Hajime stares, and then his face shifts, and he is no longer Hajime. It’s like Oikawa—like _Tooru—_ is not allowed to see him anymore. He’s not even Iwa-chan. He’s just Iwaizumi, and looking at him is like looking at a stranger.

 

“Get out,” he says. “Get out and when you get your head on straight, then we can talk. I’m not letting you do this.”

 

Oikawa stands, gathers his things, and walks out of the room with a flippant little wave, as if nothing is wrong.

 

It’s not until late that night, when Tooru is lying sleeplessly at the ceiling, that he realizes it: Hajime hadn’t thrown Oikawa out to protect himself. Hajime had thrown Oikawa out to protect Tooru, and the friendship Tooru cannot live without.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tooru thinks about things for two days before he goes back to Hajime. He thinks he owes them both that much, at least—some contemplation, some introspection, maybe even a little bit of guilt over the whole thing. He climbs in through Hajime’s window a little after midnight to the sight of his best friend lying awake in bed, staring at his phone. He looks up when Tooru slides the window shut.

 

“You haven’t done that since we were, like, twelve,” Hajime says, sitting up in bed and setting his phone on the nightstand. He sounds normal—more tender than normal, even, and Tooru wonders if it’s just the nostalgia of his climbing in the window making Hajime soft, vulnerable.

 

“Move over,” Tooru says, quiet, head down. Hajime moves, but not towards the wall like Tooru had expected. Instead, he scoots closer to Tooru on the outer edge of the bed, reaches for Tooru’s hand, and tugs until Tooru is sitting between Hajime and the wall, the way Tooru has always preferred. It makes him feel safe. Protected.

 

“You haven’t done _that_ since we were, like, nine,” Tooru says, even as he snuggles himself under the covers and presses his cheek into Hajime’s pillow. He is surrounded by the scent of _Hajime_ , his soap and shampoo and just a hint of sweat, and he unwittingly rubs his nose into the space between the pillow and the mattress. Hajime snorts and lies down next to him, wrapping an arm around Tooru’s shoulders to pull Tooru’s face into his collarbone.

 

“Hey,” Hajime says. Tooru tangles their legs and clutches at Hajime’s shirt.

 

“Hey,” he says back, feeling lost and tiny, like a child again. Maybe it’s just because they really haven’t done this in years. They’re too big for the bed now, and they definitely won’t be able to sit up under the covers with a flashlight, giggling at manga or some videogame until Hajime’s mom comes in to scold them for staying up too late.

 

“You know,” Hajime says after a minute of silence wherein Tooru is trying to find the right words to apologize with, “I want you to do what you want. With your life, I mean. You don’t have to stay here for me. If you really want to leave, then you should leave. We both know you’re smart enough to. Hell, you could probably run off to America if you really wanted.”

 

Tooru wrinkles his nose. “I hate English.”

 

“You’re good at it.”

 

“All the words go in the wrong place.”

 

Hajime laughs. “Yeah, I know. You complain about that every time.”

 

Tooru snorts, lets his fingers play with the hem of Hajime’s shirt. “I don’t know what I want,” he admits after a few seconds. Hajime’s fingers are playing with his hair, and Tooru feels the sleep that’s been evading him for the past couple of nights start to creep up.

 

“You’re 18,” Hajime says. “You don’t have to know what you want.”

 

Tooru takes a long time to respond, so long that he’s worried Hajime will be asleep when he finally opens his mouth. “I don’t know what I want because you’re right—I’m not sure if it’s what I want, or if it’s just what everyone else wants. I feel like I want to leave, to run away, but then I think maybe it’s just to escape the pressure from my parents, and from everyone else. But if I leave because of them, even if it’s to get away from them, then I’m just giving in to what they want, right? It just feels like no matter what I do, I’m not doing it for me, because I don’t really exist.”

 

Hajime’s fingers leave Tooru’s hair to wrap tight around his back. “You exist. You’re right here in my stupidly small bed being stupidly tall and stupidly good-looking. Even if you obviously haven’t slept in a couple of days.” Hajime pulls back to look at Tooru, his eyes roving over Tooru’s cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hair is falling limp against the pillow. Hajime sighs.

 

“Tooru, go to sleep.” Hajime tugs Tooru in against him once more, even presses a lingering kiss against Tooru’s forehead. Hajime seems so comfortable with the motion, as if he’s done it a thousand times even though Tooru can only think of one other time it’s ever happened, which was when they were eight and Tooru had fallen out of a tree and broken his wrist. Tooru had cried so hard that Hajime had kissed his forehead because he said his mom always did that when he cried over stuff.

 

Tooru presses a hand against his own eye, his fingernails resting over his eyebrow. Hajime is looking at him again, and he sucks in a sharp breath as he watches Tooru, who draws his hand back with a questioning glance. “What?”

 

“You just look so—fuck, Tooru,” Hajime says, and Tooru can feel it too, the gravity of this moment. The room is dim, the bed warm, Hajime’s eyes dark, his mouth soft. Tooru’s heart is beating fast, his chest suddenly all weak and fragile like his ribs might break open, spilling his heart into Hajime’s hands. “Fuck, can I—”

 

“Yeah,” Tooru says, but neither one of them moves. They stay there, foreheads pressed together, just breathing, and then someone shifts a leg and their hips are flush against each other, and Hajime’s hand grabs at Tooru’s hip, their mouths still not quite touching, their bodies all aligned and hot on the contact.

 

“Fuck,” Hajime groans, even though they’re not moving. They’re not doing anything, really; they’re just breathing each other in, reveling in the closeness.

 

“We could wait,” Tooru offers, dazed and exhausted. “The anticipation is killing me, but—fuck, maybe I’m into it,” he says, too tired to bother being anything but honest.

 

Hajime’s breath rushes out of him. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Yeah.”

 

They stay frozen, locked in the embrace for another thirty seconds, maybe a minute, before Hajime pulls back enough to meet Tooru’s eyes, the tension falling away as they come back to themselves. “Go to sleep, Tooru. I’ll wake you up early in the morning so you can sneak back home.”

 

Not that it really matters. The Oikawas and the Iwaizumis have been dealing with their sons sneaking into each other’s houses at night for years; it’s not as if this will be anything new for them.

 

But somehow it does feel new, at least for Tooru as he closes his eyes and falls asleep in Hajime’s embrace. He’s all new and sparkling, alight with emotion and an intensity of feeling that he wonders if he’ll ever capture again.

 

But as he falls asleep, he remembers that they haven’t even kissed yet, and he thinks, for now, this. For now, this, because the best is yet to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They’re sitting in Tooru’s bedroom on New Year’s Day. They’ve already gone to the shrine, clapped their hands and claimed their luck charms for the year. They’ve spent most of the day with their families, covertly texting each other while eating mochi and osechi with all of their respective grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles. Finally, in the evening, Tooru’s mom says Hajime can come over, and Hajime manages to escape his family obligations too. He shows up with snacks from the Lawson on the corner, and it’s just after eight o’clock and the night is pitch dark and freezing, but they’re under Tooru’s blanket with his laptop playing a movie, eating their snacks and joking around, their hands touching more than necessary, their legs pressed together under the duvet.

 

“Oh my god, you’re getting crumbs fucking _everywhere,_ ” Hajime gripes as Tooru pops another pizza-flavored chip in his mouth. Tooru thinks about blowing crumbs at him, but they’re in his bed and he doesn’t _really_ want to deal with cleaning that up. He chews and swallows and then sticks out his tongue.

 

“Shut up, I can’t help it,” he says, reaching for another chip. “These things are delicious.” Tooru draws out the words long and lilting, and Hajime rolls his eyes and presses a hand in against Tooru’s forehead as if to shove him away.

 

“I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with them,” he says. “They just taste like pizza.”

 

“Yeah,” Tooru says, “But they actually taste like real pizza. The flavor is so shockingly accurate, Iwa-chan!”

 

Hajime rolls his eyes. “Shut up and watch the movie.”

 

Tooru gasps and presses a hand to his chest, his other hand reaching for another chip. “Mean, Iwa-chan. And here I was even thinking about offering you some of my _amazing_ pizza chips.”

 

“Dumbass, I don’t want your pizza chips. I got them for you.” Hajime says it so casually that Tooru’s heart skips a beat. He feels young and naive, crushing on his best friend and knowing Hajime reciprocates and they haven’t _done_ anything, why are they waiting, why—

 

“Did you eat all the chocolate puff things?” Hajime asks, jolting Tooru from his thoughts. Tooru swallows hard and turns to look around at the wrappers and bags scattered on the covers.

 

“No, they’re your favorite,” Tooru says, digging around until he finds them and then settling back against Hajime’s shoulder. “Iwa-chan really got a lot of snacks for us.” It’s true. There are, like, twelve different packages cluttering the bed.

 

Hajime snorts. “Yeah, because you always want like 50 things but you only eat one bite of any of them. I have to spend like 1500 yen just to get everything you want only for you to eat about 300 yen worth of stuff.”

 

Tooru sits up, looking for the bottle of Calpis he knows is buried somewhere. “I have discerning taste!”

 

“You’re just worried about your figure,” Hajime teases, poking Tooru’s side.

 

“I get bored easily,” Tooru says with a pout, angling his face back to meet Hajime’s gaze even though he’s still sitting up to dig for the Calpis.

 

“You’re a goddamned train wreck of a person,” Hajime says. “Are you even a person?”

 

“Iwa-chan! I’m a _person—_ ”

 

“Maybe you’re an alien who crash-landed and now you’re looking for your spaceship or your real family or something but obviously no one wants you because you’re so goddamned _annoying—_ ”

 

And that.

 

That’s the thing.

 

That’s the thing that makes Tooru huff a frustrated growl and lean forward to kiss Hajime, their lips crashing together so hard Tooru feels their teeth knock. Hajime is surging forward too, no hesitation, his hand coming up to clutch at Tooru’s neck and around his right hip, their mouths opening as Tooru grabs Hajime’s shirt and scrambles onto his knees so he can throw a leg over Hajime’s, their hips coming together as Hajime leans forward until Tooru is hanging tight to Hajime’s shoulders just to stay upright. Their mouths are moving furiously, eyes closed as they let out whimpers and groans, their hands moving to grip tighter, pull closer, hang on to the moment and to each other. Tooru feels like he’s going to bubble over, or maybe explode.

 

They draw back after a minute or maybe five; Tooru can’t tell which. “Finally,” he gasps, staring at Hajime. “Finally, that took _forever_ , god,” he says.

 

“You started it,” Hajime gasps back, and they’re both giggling a little bit now, their foreheads still touching, their hips still aligned. It’s like Tooru’s whole body is tingling, and when he draws a hand back to touch his own tingling lips, he realizes he’s shaking.

 

“Fuck, are you cold?” Hajime asks, looking at the goosebumps that have broken out over Tooru’s arms, at the way he’s trembling.

 

“No,” Tooru says, head still spinning. “No, I’m not cold. I don’t know what’s happening.”

 

Hajime lets go of Tooru’s neck to grab his hand, stilling the shaking. Tooru squeezes at Hajime’s hand and buries his face in the other boy’s neck.

 

“Fuck, Hajime,” he says. “Why did we wait?”

 

Hajime chuckles. “Because waiting made it so much better.”

 

Tooru nods into his throat. “Okay. But can we do it again, this time without waiting so long?”

 

“We can do it again right now.”

 

“Okay.”

 

And they do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first time they have sex, it’s terrible. They are both virgins, and they are overconfident, and then they are under-confident, and then they somehow kind of make it work until it’s over, Tooru’s whole body aching. Hajime doesn’t even look that satisfied, and he’s the only one who came. Probably because Tooru’s ass is fucking _perfect,_ thank you very much.

 

It is also now very sore.

 

It’s awkward for a few long moments after, but then Tooru starts laughing and Hajime smacks him upside the head with a pillow. He drags Tooru into the shower and cleans them both up, and Tooru finds he doesn’t really mind that his first real sexual experience was not as mind-blowing as he had hoped.

 

They do some research, and after some hands-on practice, they get _really_ good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

February sneaks up on them faster than Tooru thought possible.

 

“How is this so easy for you?” He gripes as he lies back on Hajime’s bed, running a hand through his hair and staring up at his best friend’s familiar ceiling.

 

Hajime grunts. “The entrance exams hardly matter for either of us; we’ve both got offers for volleyball. And studying is easier for you than it is for me, anyways, so quit complaining.”

 

Tooru whines low in his throat. “But _Hajime,_ I wasn’t even talking about the exam! And of course studying is easier for you because you can actually _stay focused_ on it instead of getting so _bored_ all the time—”

 

“You get bored because it’s all so goddamn easy for you.”

 

“ _Mean—_ I mean, wait, was that a compliment?”

 

“No. Your brain is a menace to society.”

 

Tooru rolls onto his side to bat his eyelashes at Hajime, who makes a rude gesture at him from his place on the floor.

 

“Mean.”

 

“You deserve it.”

 

They fall back into a lull of silence while Tooru picks at the comforter, suddenly remembering what he was complaining about in the first place. “I mean the decision. Of where to go.”

 

Hajime looks up, his expression softer now that he’s heard the change in Tooru’s tone of voice. Their eyes lock for a few seconds before Hajime looks back down at the math textbook in his lap. “I know,” he says.

 

“If you know, then why’d you change the subject,” Tooru says.

 

“Who’s the one changing the subject now?” Hajime asks, still looking down. Tooru sighs, and Hajime sets down his pen, the motion careful, almost delicate. Then he keeps talking. “Maybe I want to avoid talking about it as much as you do,” Hajime admits.

 

Tooru swallows. “We don’t have to go to the same place, you know,” he says. “If you want to take that offer down in Nagoya—”

 

“No, I don’t want to,” he says. “I don’t want to move to Nagoya.”

 

“Have you ever even been to Nagoya? Aichi Prefecture is pretty nice, you know—”

 

“Shut up,” Hajime says, his eyes suddenly locking onto Tooru’s with an intensity that seems to jolt them both. “I don’t want to be that far away from you.” Hajime takes a breath. “I know you’re going to take the offer at Tohoku.”

 

“I never said—”

 

“You didn’t have to,” Hajime says. “It’s the second-best college in Japan. And it’s in Sendai, so it’s close to home. They gave you an offer. They _want you_ there. And you want to be there. So. You should go.”

 

Tooru swallows. “What about you?”

 

Hajime shrugs. “I can get into Sendai University through the entrance exams. They haven’t offered me a place, but I can do it. That’s why I’m studying.”

 

“But—Nagoya is great too, and it’s a better university, and…” Tooru trails off. Hajime is making an expression he’s never made before.

 

“Tooru,” he says carefully, “Do you want me to go somewhere that’s not so close to you?”

 

It’s an honest question, no leading edge to it. _Of course not,_ Tooru wants to say, but—but—

 

“I just don’t want you to stay close to me and then end up resenting me when you get bored, or think I ruined your future or something,” Tooru says, the words louder and more dramatic than he intended them to be. He almost doesn’t even sound serious with how tremulous his voice goes.

 

Hajime stares at him. “What the fuck are you talking about? That won’t happen. Tooru, you’re the one with big dreams of going pro and traveling the world playing volleyball. And I’ll always support you in that, because you should follow your heart and do what you want, and if that means going to Tohoku, then you should go.

 

“But Tooru, maybe you’re worrying about limiting me because you’re actually thinking the opposite. That I’ll keep you here, and you’ll end up resenting me. You don’t want to say it, or maybe you don’t even want to _think_ it. I’m not going to go to Nagoya or any other university just because you want me to, but…if you don’t want me around anymore, or if you think we need some time apart, then you’ve got to tell me that. I can’t read your mind.”

 

Tooru feels like he’s going to cry, and he sniffles and rubs at his eyes in a vain attempt to stop the meltdown before it happens. “Shut up, Hajime, you _know_ I don’t want that, I just—”

 

Hajime stands up and comes to sit on the bed, pulling Tooru close to him while Tooru sobs into his chest.

 

“Shit, why are you being nice to me when I’m sitting here being fucking _horrible_ over this?”

 

Hajime strokes a hand through his hair just the way he knows Tooru likes. “Tooru, it’s okay. We’re 18, and we’re expected to make all these decisions about our futures even though we have no idea what we want, and I’m never going to be mad at you for your honest feelings. Even if they take you away from me.”

 

Tooru huffs a laugh and snuggles in tighter against Hajime’s chest. “You can be incredibly wise and nurturing when you want to be, Hajime-kun.”

 

Hajime shoves Tooru off his lap and puts on a fake expression of anger. “How dare you. I’m menacing and broody all the time, you asshole.”

 

“You love my asshole.”

 

“I hate you. I hate you so, so much. I can’t believe I have sex with you.”

 

“ _Mean,_ Iwa-chan!”

 

They start a pillow fight, and then they make out for a while, and then suddenly Tooru pulls back.

 

“Don’t go to Nagoya,” is all he says.

 

Hajime quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

 

He gets smacked with another pillow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their first year of college is whirlwind of school work, volleyball games, alcohol, and a disappointingly small amount of sexual intimacy. Tooru and Hajime live in separate dorms at their separate schools, and even though they’re both in Sendai, it’s hard to maintain a relationship when they have such different schedules and they live twenty minutes from each other by train. They’re used to living three streets apart. Three miles is entirely too far.

 

They take it in stride, because they’re Hajime and Tooru, and at the end of the first year, they find a cheap apartment in between their campuses and move in together. It’s a functional arrangement, and there’s little fanfare about it, mostly because their parents still don’t know that they’re not just best friends but are, in fact, going at it every chance they get and have been for a year and a half now. They do have an apartment-warming party with a few of their mutual friends because it’s an excuse for everyone to get drunk and do stupid things, and Matsukawa and Hanamaki catch Hajime and Tooru kissing in the kitchen long after the party has technically ended and start screaming “I knew it! I knew it!” even though it’s the middle of the night. Tooru slips himself back into Oikawa mode and watches Hajime transform into Iwaizumi. It’s been a long time since Tooru has even though about that, the difference between who they are with just each other and who they are with everyone else.

 

“Shut up, we have neighbors!” Iwaizumi bellows, his volume entirely negating the point of the command.

 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa collapse against each other, laughing. “Yeah,” Makki says, “But they’re going to hate you anyways when they realize how loud Oikawa must be in bed.”

 

Oikawa giggles and smirks at Makki. “You think I’m the loud one?” He asks, flicking his eyes over to Iwaizumi, who roars.

 

“Shut the fuck up, Shitty-kawa, you’re not quiet when I’ve got my dick in you—”

 

“Ooh!” Matsukawa says. “So Iwaizumi _is_ on top! You owe me money, Makki—”

 

“You were betting on us?” Oikawa says, genuinely a little surprised. He plays it off with a toss of his hair that has him almost falling off his perch on the armrest of the couch, because yeah, he’s definitely drunk.

 

Makki nods. “Since, like, second year of high school, dude.”

 

Oikawa looks at Iwaizumi, who is scowling at Makki with his arms crossed. He looks a little scary.

 

“Oh, calm down, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, the words dripping off his tongue in a tone he never uses when it’s just the two of them. He stands up to his full regal height and goes to rest an arm over Iwaizumi’s shoulder so they’re face to face, Oikawa leaning in with a flirtatious grin. “Iwa-chan,” he says, voice small and coy. “You’re so _hot_ when you’re all big and tough like this, fuck,” he says, letting his voice drip into urgency. “You’ll rile me up in front of our _friends,_ Iwa-chan.”

 

Oikawa lets himself stumble forward a little, like he’s drunker than he is or like he’s just horny, which—yeah, he _definitely_ is. It’s getting harder to draw a line between _Oikawa_ and _Tooru_ now that he’s suddenly half-collapsed into his Iwa-chan, and he can feel the way Iwaizumi’s hands come up to steady him at his hips, strong fingers biting into the skin there and sending a delicious spark through his nerves and up his spine.

 

“Fuck, Iwa-chan, make them _leave,_ ” Tooru says, because he’s Tooru now, for sure; he’s losing his grip on Oikawa as he nuzzles Hajime’s neck, as he gasps a little breath of arousal at Hajime’s collarbone.

 

“Out,” Iwaizumi growls. “Get out _now._ ”

 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa, who up to this point have been looking on with rapt and partly horrified attention, are gone in a second.

 

Hajime lifts Tooru up and carries him to the bedroom, Tooru huffing laughter into Hajime’s shoulder and both of them happy as they get lost in each other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s strange how much random stuff collects in a place that feels like a home, Tooru thinks after he and Hajime have been living together for a year and a half. They had both brought a decent amount of stuff with them when they’d first moved in together, of course, although by now the distinction between _Tooru’s_ and _Hajime’s_ is basically null. The matter of ownership over their things doesn’t seem important.

 

But there’s new stuff now, too, stuff that was never Tooru’s or Hajime’s but has had a permanent existence as _theirs._

 

There’s the cheap little Dragon Ball Z magnet they won at a kaiten sushi place where for every five plates you order, you get the chance to win a prize. The first time they go, they eat 32 plates between them, and when they don’t win on their first six tries, they order three more plates just for that last chance. The machine whirls and shows a dumb little movie about someone playing baseball, and apparently they win because out pops the magnet. It’s so cheap and weightless that it won’t hold anything up on their fridge, but they save it anyway, the little round image of Vegeta smirking at them every time they make out in the kitchen.

 

Or do other, more normal things in the kitchen, like cooking, and eating. And having sex.

 

The magnet isn’t the only thing they end up with. There’s also the charm from the local shrine at New Year’s, and there’s the mask they got from a festival during Obon. There’s an empty bottle of whiskey in the kitchen that serves as a reminder not to ever do shots of Maker’s Mark again after they do just that and then spend the entire next day in the bathroom taking turns puking their guts out. There’s the stuffed Gudetama they’d won from a claw machine at a karaoke place, and there’s the picture of them at a ramen restaurant that Makki had taken when they both weren’t paying attention to their friends in favor of gazing longingly into each other’s eyes.

 

And then there’s the first thing they get that’s actually gifted to both of them together, as a unit. Tooru thinks that of all the things they own together, it’s the best.

 

Sometime in their second year of college, Tooru starts teaching English to kids because even though he’s not majoring in it or anything, he’s still really good at it. Hajime brings Tooru lunch sometimes so most of the kids know him, even if they only know him as Tooru’s roommate and not as his best-friend-slash-boyfriend.

 

Tooru is chatting with a nine-year-old girl named Hinano when Hajime comes in one day, and she immediately lets out a squeak.

 

“Iwaizumi-san! Iwaizumi-san!” Hinano yells, waving and gesturing Hajime over.

 

“Why are you so excited?” Tooru asks. “It’s just my roommate.”

 

“I made something for you!” She says. “For both of you!”

 

It’s a little round-ish origami thing, not a perfect sphere because it is of course made of folded paper, but the strips of color are woven together so that the edges are hard to see.

 

“It’s a volleyball,” Hinano explains. “I know it’s not perfect, but I thought you would like it. Because you both like volleyball.”

 

“Thank you,” he says in English, and Hina-chan grins. “Do you like origami?” Tooru asks, again in English.

 

Hina-chan nods. “Yes, I do,” she says, carefully, rolling the words around in her mouth as she says them to make sure she’s pronouncing them right. “Anyways,” she says, switching back to Japanese, “Tooru-sensei always talks about his best friend, Iwa-chan, so I thought I would make something for both of you!”

 

Hajime shakes his head. “You call me ‘Iwa-chan’ to them?” Hajime asks, obviously affronted.

 

Tooru grins. “Now, now, Iwa-chan,” he says, winking at Hina-chan. “Let’s not fight in front of the children!”

 

“Do you like English, Hina-chan?” Tooru asks, again in English.

 

“Yes, I do,” she says again. She switches back to Japanese: “I want to move to America! America is _so cool,_ right, Tooru-sensei?”

 

Tooru gives her the biggest grin he possibly can. “Yes! The coolest! I want to go there, too,” he says. “Now run off and tell all the other kids to work as hard as you do.”

 

Hinano giggles and runs off to chase her friends down the hall, and Tooru grins at the little origami volleyball. “We can put it up on the shelf above the desk.”

 

Hajime stares at the little ball of paper, a strange look on his face that Tooru hasn’t seen before. It’s almost pained, like he’s expecting some bad news.

 

“You’re good with the kids,” is all Hajime says, and Tooru tilts his head, a confused smile gracing his lips. “Come on,” Hajime says. “Let’s go home.”

 

They put the volleyball up on the shelf above the desk, the little blue and green and purple panels bright against the dull white of the wall and the dark wooden shelf, a symbol of the sport they both love, and of their status as _Tooru-and-Hajime_ as recognized by a nine-year-old, and of Tooru’s dreams of going pro and traveling the universe playing the sport he loves.

 

It’s too bad, Tooru will think much later, that all of that holds together in a bit of folded paper, when in real life, it just falls apart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It doesn’t happen all at once.

 

It hardly happens at all, really, Tooru thinks. He’s not bored. He’s not unhappy. He’s still playing volleyball on a team that wins consistently and works together well, and he’s near the top of his class studying aerospace engineering. He’s got a best friend who is also his boyfriend, and when they finally tell their families, everyone is nothing but supportive. Which actually kind of surprises Tooru, considering his parents’ generally conservative outlook on things.

 

“Come on,” his mom says after they tell everyone in one fell swoop at a gathering during Golden Week. “Do you really think we didn’t know?”

 

“How long?”

 

His mom rolls her eyes. “You’ve looked at Hajime like he hung the moon since you were twelve, and he’s looked at you that way even longer.”

 

“I thought you would be mad,” Tooru admits.

 

His mom smiles. “We were surprised when we first suspected all those years ago, but we’ve had a long time to get used to it. We’re just happy you’re happy.”

 

Maybe that’s what does it.

 

_Am I happy?_

 

Tooru thinks about it while he’s doing the dishes, while he’s walking to class, while he’s taking a shower. Vacant times, where he’s not doing anything else, where he’s not occupied doing the things that _do_ give him satisfaction, except then he starts thinking that maybe those things aren’t making him happy if they’re not holding his attention right, and then he starts thinking about it all the time.

 

_Am I happy, am I happy, am I happy._

He thinks yes, but then he thinks that if he has to think about it, maybe he’s not. He thinks no, and he tries to convince himself he is.

 

And then the scout shows up.

 

It’s just a practice match against a nearby school. Hajime isn’t there because he’s taking his entrance exam to get into nursing school. Tooru plays hard and after Tohoku wins the last set, a man approaches him with a smile and a firm handshake. He’s not Japanese, but he speaks the language well.

 

“You know,” he says, “You could play outside Japan if you wanted. There are teams in America that would love to have you even if you’re not a citizen.”

 

“That’s allowed?”

 

The man shrugs. “Sure. I mean, not for the Olympics or something, obviously, but you could go for a year or two and then come back here and play on one Japan’s pro teams. Just saying. If you wanted to go on an adventure before you settle down.”

 

Tooru shakes his head, trying to digest the information. It’s all of his dreams neatly packaged up, almost too good to be true.

 

The man smiles. “Let me give you my card,” he says. “Call me if you’re interested.”

 

Tooru takes the card and thanks the man, and then he goes home and pushes the whole thing from his mind.

 

He doesn’t throw away the card.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The end of college comes faster even than the end of high school had; it feels like only yesterday that they were sitting in Hajime’s childhood bedroom having the same conversation they’re having now, except then it had turned out to be an easy conversation, and this time, it is not.

 

“I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what _you_ want. I just—” Tooru is sobbing, has been for the past twenty minutes, and he doesn’t think he can stop. “Hajime, I’m sorry, I just can’t—”

 

“You can’t _what?_ You can’t trust me enough to tell me the truth anymore? I’m your _best friend_ , Tooru. I always have been, and I always will be.”

 

“Hajime, I—I’m sorry, I just don’t _know_ —it’s not that simple.”

 

“It seems pretty simple to me. I’m with you forever, Tooru. See? That was pretty goddamned simple.”

 

“Yeah, but how can you be so sure—”

 

“You were sure once, too. I know you were, because we talked about it.”

 

“Things change.”

 

“So you _are_ leaving.”

 

Tooru swallows. “I’m not—I haven’t made any decisions yet.”

 

“It sounds like you have,” Hajime says, his voice suddenly soft and resigned. Tooru watches the motion of his throat as he swallows and realizes out of nowhere that it’s been years since he’s seen Hajime cry. Maybe since they were ten and Hajime’s family dog had died.

 

“Tooru,” Hajime says, gentle. He cups Tooru’s face in his hands and wipes away the tears. “It’s okay, Tooru.” He wraps his arms around Tooru’s shoulders, pulls him in the way he always has, always, for Tooru’s whole life, or at least for as long as Tooru can remember.

 

“I don’t want to go,” Tooru says, moving forward to press his cheek into Hajime’s shoulder. But his head is angled away, towards the world outside. He’s no longer tucked into Hajime’s neck, the way it’s always been before.

 

Something inside him is breaking.

 

Hajime pets his hair. “I know you don’t. But I also know you do,” he says. “You’ve got to get out of here. Your head has always been lost in the stars. Maybe you _are_ an alien looking for your crashed spaceship or your long-lost alien family—”

 

Tooru cuts him off with a kiss, just like the first time Hajime had said it, and they stay locked like that for a long few minutes, their mouths soft and careful, just smooth presses of lips on lips, their tongues meeting in the middle.

 

Tooru is the first to pull away.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re right. I’m an alien. I’m just—looking for my spaceship. And then I’ll come back.”

 

Hajime shakes his head. “No, Tooru, don’t say that. Don’t put that on yourself. You’re hanging that over your own head.”

 

“But I want to come back—”

 

“Yeah, right now,” Hajime says. “But in a year, or maybe two…you can make the decision then. Take your time. You’ve got plenty.”

 

Tooru’s tears return full force, and he wraps himself back in Hajime’s arms. “I’ll miss you, I’ll miss you,” he chants, the words halting and stuttered. Hajime tightens his embrace, and it feels so final. It feels like goodbye.

 

“I’ll help you pack. You can stay here until you go,” Hajime offers.

 

Oikawa exhales so hard he feels like he’ll pass out. “Okay. I…I haven’t accepted the offer yet. But, if I tell them…”

 

“Tell them today. Come on, I’ll help you make the phone call.”

 

“Hajime, I’ll be gone in two weeks.”

 

Hajime nods. “Okay. Two weeks, then. I’ll help you get ready.”

 

Tooru swallows. There’s a weight lifted off his chest, even now, with his heart shattering. It feels good to hurt. It feels free. It feels strong. “We could do long-distance.”

 

Hajime shakes his head. “That’s not what you want.”

 

“But—”

 

“Tooru, that’s not what _I_ want.”

 

Tooru inhales. He knows that it’s true, had known it before he’d offered, but it still hurts to hear, and he can see that it hurts Hajime to say it.

 

“You’ve always been stronger than me,” Tooru says, squeezing Hajime’s hand.

 

Hajime shakes his head. “You misjudge yourself. You’re as strong as me, and that’s why you can go be free.”

 

They’re silent for a second, just holding hands in their living room, the world shattered around them.

 

“Come on. You should let them know that you want the spot on the team.”

 

That night they eat dinner together, and they climb into bed, and when Hajime presses into him all soft and gentle like he rarely is, Tooru starts crying, because he knows now that their last time is near, and it will hurt far more than their first.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are some things Tooru will always remember.

 

The way Hajime looked in the morning when he had just opened his eyes, his gaze soft on sleep and searching for Tooru beside him, his hands weak and uncoordinated as he reached for his bedpartner and pressed a kiss to Tooru’s mouth.

 

The slant of light coming in the kitchen window and falling on the sink, lighting up soap bubbles as they did the dishes after breakfast and Tooru flicked water at Hajime and shrieked a giggle when Hajime splashed him right back.

 

The time Tooru had failed a calculus test and had come home in frustrated tears, his mood so sour that Hajime had stormed out. Ten minutes later, Hajime had returned with milk bread and chocolate cake, because he wasn’t sure whether the old standby of milk bread was really enough of a comfort for such a dire situation.

 

The afternoon they moved all the furniture out of the living room so they could get drunk in the middle of the day and sing karaoke with Hanamaki and Matsukawa, but then the other two couldn’t come because they were apparently too busy having wild sex (“ _Fucking finally!_ ” Hajime had yelled when they found out) and so Hajime and Tooru had just done it by themselves.

 

The too-honest discussions they had in the early hours of the morning about how Tooru feels when he is Oikawa, and how his high school persona had been the only thing keeping him from falling apart sometimes, and how Tooru still feels like falling apart a lot and Hajime is the glue keeping him together.

 

The way Hajime always looks at him. Always, always, Tooru thinks, when he is thousands of miles and an ocean away. It’s been a year since they’ve seen each other, and still, Tooru thinks, if he saw Hajime right now, that’s how Hajime would look. _You’ve looked at Hajime like he hung the moon since you were twelve, and he’s looked at you that way even longer_ , his mother’s voice says in his head.

 

There’s no way Tooru can describe the way Hajime looks when he’s looking at Tooru. Not in Japanese, and certainly not in English. It’s always the same expression, Tooru realizes, when he’s lying awake in some stranger’s bed and telling himself that this is freedom, that this is growing up. Hajime has always looked at him the same way, since they were teenagers, since they were children. Since they were hardly even people. Since they were aliens, searching for their crashed spaceships, or maybe for their families.

 

They had found it in each other, Tooru thinks.

 

But.

 

 _This is freedom_ , he tells himself. _This is growing up._

 

But every five minutes, he sees something that makes him reach automatically for his phone, a LINE message half-composed in his mind before he can remind himself not to say anything, not to message and not to call. It wouldn’t be fair, he tells himself, even though he thinks Hajime would answer anything Tooru said to him.

 

 _This is freedom,_ he tells himself again. _This is growing up._

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s been two years since Tooru has stepped foot in Japan.

 

“I’m coming back,” Tooru tells Hanamaki over Skype. “I’ve accepted a spot on a team in Osaka. I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

 

Hanamaki makes an excited noise, his face lighting up as he sways out of view of the webcam for a moment. “That’s amazing! I’ll tell Macchan!”

 

“Is that what you’re calling him now?”

 

Hanamaki grins. “Just because you fucked up your relationship doesn’t mean I fucked up mine. Matsukawa loves me,” he jokes.

 

It’s been two years, but the words still jolt through Tooru’s heart. The hurt must show on his face, because Makki goes serious in an instant. “Are you going to see Hajime?”

 

Tooru shrugs. “I don’t know. I can’t live in Sendai anymore, with the team being in Osaka,” he says. “But…I could be up north for part of the year. Or I could commute…”

 

“So you are going to see him.”

 

“I wasn’t planning anything.”

 

Makki smiles. “Yeah, you were. You already know you could commute, or live up north part-time. You literally just told me.”

 

Tooru sighs. “Don’t tell him.”

 

Makki shakes his head. “My lips are sealed. I’m telling Macchan though.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _KingOikawa:_ I’m in Japan. You want to buy me a coffee?

 

 _IwaizumiHajime:_ When and where?

 

 

It’s the first message he’s received from Hajime in almost two years. Tooru fights tears while he types back, but he can feel himself smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is sunlight coming in through the window. It is the cusp of spring, and Oikawa is back where he started, and Oikawa is new and terrified.

 

They sit in the corner of the shop. Iwaizumi looks the same as he always has, and yet he is different, and Oikawa wonders when Hajime had turned into Iwaizumi in his head. He wonders when Tooru had turned permanently into Oikawa. It’s like he hasn’t found anything in his leaving, like all he has done is lost himself.

 

And Oikawa knows, as Tooru knows: this is growing up.

 

“Hello,” Oikawa says, carefully, “Hajime.”

 

Iwaizumi stares, his expression soft, but there is no smile playing at his lips, no glint of camaraderie in his gaze. Only the soft acknowledgment of recognition. “Hello,” he says. “Tooru. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

 

Oikawa’s heart shatters into pieces right there, shards of him hitting the ground like a broken vase as the years fracture before him because it’s all been pointless: it was pointless to leave, and it would have been pointless to stay, and now the only thing that Oikawa knows for certain is that of everything he’s lost, it has all been worth it for the knowledge that he aches for what he has been right here all along. That even if he’s lost it, he still knows where it is.

 

I miss you, Tooru thinks.

 

“It has been a couple years, yes,” Oikawa says.

 

Someone is looking back at him and Oikawa doesn’t know who it is. If it’s Iwaizumi, or if it’s Iwa-chan, or if it’s Hajime. He misses them all and he still doesn’t say it.

 

“You didn’t call me,” Iwaizumi says, and Oikawa ducks his head.

 

“I know,” he replies. “I thought…”

 

There’s a smile playing around Iwaizumi’s lips now, and he looks so much like Tooru’s Hajime that Oikawa feels his eyes burn hot with tears.

 

“You could have called,” Hajime says. Not Iwa-chan. Not Iwaizumi. Hajime. “I missed you. I still miss you, Tooru.”

 

There is sunlight coming in through the window. It is the cusp of spring, and Tooru is 25, and it has been two years since they’ve seen each other, and it has been nearly 20 years since they first met, and all of those years of life would have been pointless if Tooru had never met Hajime.

 

Tooru’s voice cracks when he says, “I miss you. I miss myself. I miss everything.”

 

Hajime smiles. “I miss it too. Being young.”

 

“I miss being in love,” Tooru says.

 

“I don’t miss that at all. I don’t remember what it’s like to not be,” Hajime says.

 

Tooru starts crying. “I broke your heart. I broke _my_ heart. I broke everything.”

 

Hajime shakes his head, gives a little smirk. “Shut up, Trashy-kawa. You didn’t break anything beyond repair.”

 

Tooru closes his eyes. “I miss not feeling heartbroken all the time.”

 

Hajime takes a step forward, brushes a thumb across the soft of Tooru’s cheek. His finger is wet with Tooru’s tears when he pulls away.

 

“It’s not too late, Tooru. I don’t know if you know that. But like I said. Nothing’s broken that can’t be fixed.”

 

Tooru sniffs. “Maybe I am.”

 

“Shut up. You’re an ugly crier and you’re whiny beyond belief and you don’t even like chicken cartilage, but right now, your biggest problem is that you’re indulging in self-pity. Knock it off, Tooru.”

 

Tooru huffs a sigh. “I don’t like making choices.”

 

“I know.”

 

“That’s why I ran.”

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

“ _I didn’t want to leave you—_ ”

 

“ _Tooru, I know._ ”

 

They stare at each other for a minute and then Tooru stands and snatches up Hajime’s hand. “Come on,” he says, dragging them out of the Starbucks. “Let’s not do this here.”

 

But they do. Of course they do. Tooru can’t help it: he walks them around the side of the shop and cages Hajime in against the wall, leaning into his space and waiting for some affirmative sounds that Hajime never makes, because Hajime is the one leaning in to kiss Tooru hard.

 

“I thought we were here for coffee,” Hajime says when they finally break apart.

 

“I wanted to make out with you outside of Starbucks,” Tooru whines, pouty and flirtatious.

 

“You’re 25 years old. Stop pouting.”

 

“You like it.”

 

“I hate it and you’re the worst.”

 

Tooru smacks Hajime on the arm. “ _Mean,_ Iwa-chan!”

 

But Hajime only smirks. “Come on. I’ll buy you whatever you want. You’re too pretty to buy.”

 

Tooru lets out a squeal of delight. “Iwa-chan, so cute!” He flutters his lashes. He lets his head drop to Hajime’s shoulder as they walk back inside.

 

It’s not a resolution. They have a long way to go in relearning each other, a lot to share about the two years they spent apart. But Tooru walks back into Starbucks with Hajime in tow and a grin plastered across his face, and he thinks, yeah. Hajime was right. Being in love is one thing he’s never had to miss.

 

And he’s no longer worried about finding his spaceship. His family has been right here with him all along.


End file.
